


Snippets of Walking in Darkness

by Inugami



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Outtakes, Snippets, ideas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-13 20:21:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3395120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inugami/pseuds/Inugami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First chapter:<br/>Sera, kittens and a pillow fight(Sera lets loose sexual innuendos  similiar to some game dialogue, so if you can´t stand that, just a warning)</p><p>Second chapter:<br/>Dorian gets gifts from a secret admirer(Warning:mentions of past emotional abuse)</p><p>Third chapter:<br/>12 year old Dorian gets his first kiss</p><p>Fourth chapter:<br/>What the difference is between the Quon and the Qun, they are not the same.<br/>Just like a dragon is not just his snout.</p><p>Fifth chapter:<br/>Teenaged Dorian tries to get experience, too far, too fast-Triggerwarning-</p><p>Sixth chapter:<br/>A mothers encouragement, secrets hidden in the note.<br/> </p><p>Thoughts that don´t let you go, leave one sleepless, banned into letters for gaining peace.<br/>Encounters between different characters. Some humorous, others smexy and a few also sad. Whatever crawls out of the dark corners of my mind and demands to be let out, could end up here.<br/>Not killing any major charakters, but there might be twists, mightily disliked by some. Can not promise to not post boring stuff, it happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Why one does not simply give Sera kittens

**Author's Note:**

> Outtakes of a longer story, pieces which reach out and pull at hems, pleading to be let out.  
> Pieces which shine lighter.  
> Pieces, if they might get lost it would be very unfortunate.
> 
> I need a place to store my thoughts, otherwise I can't find the peace of mind to later put all the pieces of the puzzle together.  
> Am I the only one where the pieces of a story fall over each other in disorder, what normally comes later needs to be written first and vice versa?

“Hey…ah..Sera?”  
“Yeah Lady Boobybits?” the greetings vary and get stranger the further the day wents.  
“I thought you might need company..someone who can keep pace with you.”  
“Ah company, Lady Holyherald? What do you have in mind? Romp in the hay, on the roof?”  
“Well, you can romp on the roof and in the hay, but not with me. I have…some obligations to fullfill” she sighs and doesn´t take Seras flirtations in earnest. Just another quirk of Sera, if you take that girl too seriously, you get barmy.  
“Here, found them on the way back to Haven…we have more than enough mice and rats to feed the lot. Saw one of those rodents running straight through the tavern last time I was there in the morning”  
“Kittens, kittikittikittiiiins…mraaaaraa…raa..kiiittens!” she grabs two of them, pressing them to her chest, cuddling and talking in that high voice. The deep growling ‘raaaa’ that seems to be her favoured sound of sillyness is a stark contrast to her high, overjoyed voice.  
“Kitties…oh I love them..kitties my own kitties, oh I will teach you how to hunt good, oh yes I will..and I will feed you and pet you and brush you and make you go potty-poopoo in Lelianas shoe-shoes, oh we will have so much fun..off to find my wewe troublymakers some milk”  
Yes, Sera is absolutely delighted and grabs the basket with the kittens who are just old enough to survive by themselves, but surely not out in the cold where she found them, not far from a settlement they went through on their way back. Too many cats, nobody wanting them, but the grown ones were too shy while the young ones..were too cuddly to not take all four of them.

“What was this infernal voice, do we have demons of despair invading Haven?” Cassandra is done with inspecting her soldiers, the first thing she always does when they come back, or in the morning before the morning meal..and after the night meal before she goes to bed…can´t have them slacking off from training.  
“Well I would not say a demon of despair, but maybe a demi-god of mischief”  
“You gave her the kittens” she deadpans to the Herald  
“Yes I gave her the kittens, they will occupy her. Less time to snoop around and annoy the hell out of you. And when they are fully grown, the cats will be usefull. Aren´t enough cats here. The rodents seem to have multiplied since I came to be here”  
“More people, more foodscraps and garbage to eat, more places to hide. Well, I hope it works out. I will see you at the dinnertable.”  
“Yes, until then…”

\---------

“Why exactly is it necessary that I do that? “  
“Because you are the Inquisitor”  
“Wonderfull”

\-------

If there is something she needs to do, that always is the reason why it should be her, and not someone else. Maybe a small group of soldiers or archers, but no it needs to be her.  
Small errands to run, call on to the Herald of Andraste because that is training for later. Building up stamina, fighting skill, whatever..diplomacy.

Sometimes she would love to have gotten cut some slack, instead she was dragged out of bed by her ankle to do this and that and some more of other stuff.

 

“Cassandra pulled you out of bed again I guess?”  
“She is one of the few who doesn´t seem to know the word fear…and she is not amused about the kittcident”  
“Ah yes, the kittcident. “ Solas puts down a cup of tea in front of her as they sit in his homely little cave he had made for himself  
“Nothing new?”  
“No, I have found a few hints to what might be going on, but there is no real lead that could tell me why you have to seem the ability to command nature without outright showing any remarkable ammounts of mana.”  
“You are not inclined to let me parttake in the knowledge about those hints?”  
“Well, it could be that your mark draws energy from the Fade which in turn is aiding your needs. To protect you, or attack your enemys. Similar to what the Spirits of the Fade are able to do, manipulating their surroundings by pure will.”  
She sighs and empties her teacup with a big gulp, filling it up again.  
“And…I am neither a spirit nor am I possessed by one. So it all boils down to the Fade and that shiny souvenir on my hand?”  
“There is nothing absolutely sure, even when that seems to be the best possible explanation.”  
“But you said there is no mortal being who could use the Fade in such a way?”  
“And no other being beside you, at least in a long, long time did survive a journey into the fade and resurfaced with a mark that can seal rifts in the hull that seperates our world and the Fade”  
“So, another lessons in meditation is in order. Let´s see what the Fade has to offer. You think sooner or later I will be able to manipulate it. Sounds dandy, no time to loose…it is only a matter of when and not if Cassandra has another errand for me to run until we have to meet the mages in Redcliff. I hope it will end better than what we had with the templars.”  
“Yes, we all hope that, even Sera with her dislike of magic is not adverse to their help. As long as they don´t do their ‘Flinky-flunky’-thingie in close proximity to her.”  
“Hah, Sera has the nicest words to describe something” she smiles and takes her usual place in the relaxation area, laying down and enjoying the soft matress under her back, the icy tinkling sounds of cristall trinkets and the colourfull, eerie lights they sow onto the walls, the ground and herself.  
“You know the drill, keep your eyes open, follow the tendrils of smoke and try to get drawn in by the smell of the incense. It might help if you try to analyze the underlying notes of the aroma and visualize them with open eyes.

\---------------

 

“At least the exercises are good enough to get some sleep back” it is depressing that she doesn´t make any progress. She is on her way to Cassandra who has obtained a blade through Lelianas channels which could aid her in regulating the irregular outbursts of ‘non-magic‘-magic.  
The last time they spoke, Cassandra sounded promising, but for now she isn´t getting her hopes up.

The blade on the table is slender, long..as she lifts it there is a distinct strange feeling thrumming through her body and the weapon is not light by any means, but it doesn´t seem to tire her arm as she carries the blade, swinging it around a few times.  
“A blade crafted by a mage who had a faible for swordsmanship. Metall and gemstones fused together in a ritual. Blended into one which normally is impossible, but that is what magic is for” Leliana explains.  
“And that means what exactly?” the Inquisitor asks  
“It is more or less a staff in the form of a sword. Functional like a sword and the mage did infuse it with his spells, so the blade could turn to ice, fire..whatever he desired. It could also throw the spells and there is a chance it can help you focus your attacks better”  
The Herald of Andraste smiles uneasily “Yes…that would help” because the unfocused attacks that were not bound and tamed by her mind, but brougth forth by her desires and needs, did go awry now and then which was not a problem when she was alone. But if there were other people with her, allies who could get caught in the outburst..not so good.  
“So Cassandra, up for some sparring or should I plead my case with Solas?”  
“Let us test these theories, but outside of the walls, a short walk into the woods. I will not have our training area brought to shambles”  
Well, someone has to train with her and as Cassandra does not fear magic as most of the soldiers do, she is the best option next to Solas.

\-------------

She aches, nearly as bad as when she fell out of the Fade the first time.  
Small cuts, big bruises…but in the end she thinks that it was worth it.  
Cassandra is a long trained fighter, she hasn´t much hope to ever be better than her in the foreseeable future.  
Tomorrow the bruises will be gone and only a faint twinge in her body will remind her of what they have done.  
A small success for now, only a real fight against people who want to do her harm can show them if her talents are reliable.  
Oh Cassandra gave all, the difference is that she didn´t really want to kill her trainee. So it might be that the non-magic she wields didn´t react in the way it would react in a fight of life and death.  
A small shadow scuttles over the floor, climbing the blanket that is hanging over the edge of the bed. Pointy, needly claws prodd at the cloth and a furry head bumps against her chin.  
Energetic, wild purring starts as she is petting one of the kittens she has brought for Sera.  
“Hm, wanna sleep here, some peace and silence..” She rolls onto her side, pulling the kitten under the blanket with her so only the fluffball of its head looks out from under the duvet.  
“No playing around in the middle of the night, I need my sleep…or I will put you out the door” she mumbles, letting herself get lulled to sleep by steady, high purring.

\------------------very, very early next morning---------

“WAAAAKEYY WAAAAKKKEEEY!”  
The scared kitten screeches high, claws extended and leaving welts on her chest as it tries to flee from the loud noise, the nightcloth not thick enough to keep the claws from reaching skin.  
What hurts more is when her brows hits Seras. Jolting awake when someone is kneeling on the bed in front of you is a sure way to earn a first class headache.  
“Dammit..ooow…” she glares at Sera who rubs her own head, but stills and than stares at the Inquisitors chest.  
“Lady Inquitittors Boobies…” she grins and earns a whack with said Inquitittors pillow so she topples backwards from the bed.  
“Oh you evil little snitch, get back here this instance! How you dare waken me” do her words even make sense as she curses, running after a fully clothed Sera with her pillow.  
“Help, oooh help poor me, the Inquitittors Titties are burning!”  
“I show you what´s burning!” her nightclothes are wide and comfortable…aaaand wide, showing off certain glimpses as she sprints after her attacker. She should have pulled the strings tight, but alas, who might have imagined that she would have to hunt after a tricky, bitchy elf.  
Not that she is thinking about that at the moment, she just wants to catch Sera and…well..she doesn´t know what she wants exactly, just somehow punish her.

“What in Andrastes name is all thaaa!” Cullen has just opened the door to look what the commonition is all about, than jumps backwards as Sera pushes the door to the war room open. Sera is running in circles round the table where the advisors of the Inquisition sit and discuss other missions that can be done while the Inquitittor is elsewhere, the gathering disturbed by the Herald of Andraste, swinging her pillow and trying to whack Sera.  
The squealing, giggling, outright laughing girlish woman tries to flee over the table to get away, but the Herald of Andraste is just as fast and nimble, grabbing an ankle and bringing her to fall as she climbs on the table and over a fallen Sera who has rolled around to face her impending pillowy doom.  
The overstuffed pillow lands with low thuds on Seras head as the Inquisitor sits on her hips “Don´t you dare ever wake me again in such a fashion you snatch from hell”  
Another few thuds and ‘poof’ the pillow catches somewhere on Seras protective gear, rips and the feathers fly all over the place.  
Still nursing a headache the pillow is forgotten as she switches to tickling her foe to death, keeping a tight grip on Sera with her tights as the elfen girl bucks and wriggles under the onslaught, screeching and at last pleading for mercy.  
“Noo..no…raaa..harh…stoop…mercy…” than a snort sounds, followed by outright guffawing laughter, another one follows and “Oh Andraste” “How did I deserve this” and a chocolaty ladylike chuckle wakes the Inquitittor from her playfull rage and she looks around.

Varric sounds like a wolf, or bear, maybe a wolfbear, roaring with laughter, Josephine stares, smile hidden behind her hand, similar to Vivienne de Fer , but she chuckles lightly, openly.  
Cassandra looks more like her grouchy self whose day, not even really begun, can not get any worse and Leliana is strangely absent.  
Cullen doesn´t seem to know what he should make out of the situation, red tinting his cheeks dark as he pulls the cloak from his shoulders and approaches the table.  
“Lady Inquisitor, you should propably..” he coughs.  
The herald of Andraste looks down at her self and turns the darkest shade of red possible to her, nightcloth ridden up on her tights, feathers everywhere, the neck of her nightcloth slack enough to show off a bit more of her womanly attributes than she is comfortable with.  
“Oh no, no stay where you are Inqui..ompfh” the sad, empty pillowcase is slapped on Seras face as the Inquisitor growls.  
“Quiet you…” than she tries to pull both her neckline up and keep the cloth over her tights where it is for fear it might ride higher until Cullen has drapped his cloak around her.  
“Aehm..thank you…I will retreat to my quarters and make myself presentable for the journey..if you excuse me..dear Lords and Ladys…” she shuffles backwards to climb from the table while Sera giggles, Varric wipes tears of laughter from his eyes and has taken to scribble notes down.  
Just as she turns to the door, it opens and Solas enters “I am sorry for my lateneee…what exactly did occur here?” one brow pulled up, he takes in the dissaray, feathers everywhere, Sera rolling with laughter on the table and except Cassandra, the other members seem to have problems to keep themselves from falling into full blown laughter.  
“Sera did happen…and a pillow, nothing strange..just Sera” she puffs a feather from her brow that has been caught in some loose strands of her hair as she strolls in a regal posture through the door. The majestic way in which she exits the room is all it takes to make the room break out in unbriddled laughter again, including a puzzled looking hedge mage and two humans, one slightly ashamed to be amused, the other ..grumpy cat.  
Back in her room she grins, placing the cloak over a stool and starts to laugh.  
Yes that was funny…the start was slightly painfull, but then she did have fun. Just her luck that Sera didn´t run out into the courtyard, that would have been a tad too frosty for her tastes.


	2. Just eat your words and smell the damn flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian gets gifts and he doesn´t know from whom or why.  
> Mention of past abuse, abusive mother, might trigger, no sex or sexual abuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess next to Anders and Fenris, Dorian is a highly discussed character.  
> There aren´t two sides of a coin, there are many facets of a diamond cut which make the character so versatile and beloved.
> 
> If you are a victim of abuse, beware..this snippet might trigger you.
> 
> There are stories about the strong Dorian who doesn´t take shit, who has his own mind and chases after what he wants despite the abuse he went through.  
> But there is also the Dorian who is hurt, unsure of himself...the Mage who loves bull forcefull nature and yes...when you see it from a different corner it could also be an abusive relationship...the dialogues between bull and dorian can be interpreted on the far end of both spectrums.
> 
> I love Doribull, there are many good stories out there. Many good stories with other male partners.  
> Sorry, I can not see Dorian as anything else but gay, there might be good stories out there but that just..it doesn´t fit for me.
> 
> I hold the stories dear who describe Dorians turmoil because of his past.  
> No one can tell me that his upbringing wasn´t riddled with abuse...emotional abuse.
> 
> Fitting in, being better than everyone else, having to act a certain way.  
> The best of the best, breed for perfection, groomed to be the best stud.  
> Yeah there I have said it.
> 
> Do his parents care for him?  
> As far as I can gleam from the story and what I know from working with abused kids, his father cares, but is bound by the rules his society installed.  
> He just can not get over them, not fully..only a bit when he sees his son in danger and tries to make amends which seems very difficult.
> 
> What about the mother?  
> He doesn´t talk about her, not that she is dead, who she was, nothing.  
> That is leading to the conclusion that she might have been the main abusive force, only bearing him because society, family demanded it, wanting nothing to do with him.  
> Only when she could show him off like a prized Dhalia to her guests.  
> It is a plausible thought, that there is absolutely no mention about his mother, children don´t just not talk about deceased or slightly abusive parents.
> 
> The kids who do not talk about their mothers are those, whose mothers are alive, but who had no interest in their children, shoving them onto other family members and vanishing for days on end to party, go on a holiday.  
> Parents who belittle the child they do not want, who hate their child for everything that went wrong in their own lives, blaming them for being stuck in a relationship with the other parent.
> 
> In my mind Dorians mother was forced into the marriage, maybe she is even gay or asexual or was forced to abandon her love. I imagine her to come from an abusive home, or at least one where she was raised by servants and her parents were merely strangers living in the same home and that is what she reflects on her own child.  
> Women who absolutely did not want children and keep hating it, forced into carrying and birthing them abuse their offspring, just as cows or horses also will trample on their offspring after birth or refusing to nurse and clean them.
> 
> Yes there are women who never will love a child they birthed, that happens. Carrying a child doesn´t make a woman automatically love it, even when that is often portayed as the idolized image, that every unwanted pregnancy turns into a wanted baby as soon she holds her child in her arms...
> 
> Dorian had nursemaids, servants caring for him...if he had been born into a poor family I imagine his mother might have orphaned or even left him to die if she didn´t outright kill him after birth.
> 
> Harsh, but that is unfortunately a reality many children face..and in my mind that fits for Dorian who does never mention his mother, just as kids with the so called 'stranger mother' never want to talk about the mother that saw them only as a burden or even a mistake.  
> Those kids often erase their mother in their mind, keeping her in a far, far away corner in their mind to never speak about and at best, never ever remember them..wishfully thinking that is.
> 
> Those mothers when forced to interact and aknowledge the unwanted child are often highly abusive with their words, less so physically when other family members who have taken care of the child would be able to see the marks.
> 
> Dorian is strong, a very strong character who makes his own decisions, that doesn´t mean he hasn´t to fight with his past and the teachings, the abuse ingrained in his mind. He hasnt broken under the pressure of his family, his society, but there are cracks.

The first time he had seen one of the small packages on the desktop in his room he had felt unease crawling up his spine.  
Who had been in his room and what was that thing?  
Then he had opened it, pulled the string and pushed the crinkling, strong paper back to lift a wooden box out of the folds.  
There had been no magic he could detect, neither had there been poison or something similar.

For minutes he stood there, dumbfounded and didn´t know if he should open the box or not.  
The box had been relatively heavy, the outside of it didn´t tell one anything about the contents, so he took a deep breath and opened it.

The surprise and initial joy is something he still remembers as clearly as he felt it in the moment he saw the chess pieces nestled in their bed of red satin.  
At first he suspected them to be made from glass only to realise that every piece had been cut from a gemstone.  
The small blemishes in each piece were part of the perfection.  
No glass, no magic…the pieces had been made by hand, carved. Not formed from other raw materials or manipulated into existence.

Even with all the joy he feels, having been gifted such an exquisite piece of craftmansship, he can not help but wonder, rubbing a smooth piece between his fingers.  
A secret admirer. Never would he have thought to receive gifts, especially ones so well thought out. He can´t say that those rival the gifts he received in Tevinter…no, those gifts triumphed over them in an enormous leap.  
Obsidian and Paragons Luster. More than just simple gems.  
The deep, shining black of the Obsidian, strange how he never realised how it harmonized with the Mother of Pearl sheen of Paragons Luster.  
Cristalline white, streaked with rainbow.  
He hasn´t invited Cullen to take part in a game. The desire to keep it for himself so no one can lay eyes upon it, touch it, is so strong, he can not help himself.

When he wakes up in the morning he sees that the pieces have been set on the wooden board he keeps in his room when the set in the garden is already occupied.  
One piece is moved. Maybe Cole…but why would Cole enter his room or offer him gifts?But who else could read his desires so easily and deposit them here…or even enter his room while he sleeps, and start a match?  
He moves a white piece and then leaves on a mission.  
As he gets back to his quarters he checks the board and is not dissapointed to see that another piece has departed from its original place.

“This is getting ridiculous” fingers carding through perfectly coiffed hair as he stares down at the board. Neither Cole or Cullen know anything, didn´t send gifts, why would they?  
And why would a secret admirer not at least leave a note?  
The last few days the pieces have moved further.  
Who is playing chess with him and why?  
That reminds him of the mindgames played in the circles of Tevinter he once called home.  
Unnerving your opponent or lulling them into absent minded pleasure so one had it easier to get blackmail material on them, or to asassinate.  
And still he plays, even when the doubts get stronger every time he moves a piece, when a new gift arrives. Not as lavish as the chess pieces, just as well thought out.

His fingers itch, oh how he longs to overthrow the board and fling the pieces all over the room.  
He hates this. Not knowing who is doing this, or why. How can he savour the gifts, enjoy them when he doesn´t understand the motive behind it.  
Gifts…in Tevinter one always had a reason as to why offer something. There were no real gifts, you had either to offer something in return, or something would be taken from you.

Real gifts, given just because one can do so, to make a smile grow on the lips of the gifted…  
..not that he didn´t do that while still back home, giving gifts to his parents to make them smile.  
The trinkets he recieves remind him of all the failed moments of his young life back home.  
He sits back on his bed and grips his hair with both hands, ellbows resting on his knees.  
No, he doesn´t want to remember, those thoughts still plague him.  
Flowers picked, held between two tiny hands to be able to wrap around the stems.  
His teeth gnash against each other as he remembers how he brought them to his mother.  
He just wanted her to smile at him, he had thought his gift so well choosen.  
As the memories come unwanted, how she sneered first because he had disturbed her, than as he held up the bunch of wildflowers she stalked up to him, ripping the boquet from him, flowers spraying, falling, crushed under her shoes.  
She didn´t scream, the tone of her voice, the hateful sneer…brat, it cut more than screaming.  
How did he have the gall to offer something so plebian, to dirty her room with it, to dirty himself.  
Arm harshly gripped, dragged out of her suite, shoved into the arms of a waiting servant to be bathed and groomed, put into clean clothes.

A lesson well learned, gifts are only good if they are expensive, rare, or best of all, both.  
The next lesson he learned was that gifts had to be more expensive, more rare with every occasion. He still tried to make her smile, so that she might hug him, a pat on the cheek, her showing his gift off, wearing it.  
How her smiles got smaller if he didn´t upgrade them accordingly..and even when he did, the smiles got less bright until the day the gifts he made were not appreciated, but demanded and her mood turned foul if she didn´t get what she expected from him.

And here he is sitting, getting baubles and he can´t fight the feelings.  
First the surely high expensive gem-cut chess pieces.  
Then there was a box of herbal tea to aid détente. Not an expensive gift by any means.In Tevinter he should have acted insulted, angry to have been given something he could not only have bought himself, but which merely cost some coins.  
Instead, now he felt…sad and happy, grateful. He hadn´t thought about buying and using herbs to aid relaxation. Just to heal obvious wounds, remedies against pain but nothing as simple as a tea that would sooth his nerves.  
Such a small thing, easily forgotten and someone…had thought of it, for him.  
Even with all the things about etiquette, it could not dimish the warmth he feels wrapped in.  
To him all the gifts, no matter the ammount of gold they cost, were equally superb.

How his mother would have sneered, his father less so, but he wouldn´t have understood why his son would have been so joyful about the cheapest mix of herbs.  
Someone is thinking about him, really thinking.  
Not just ‘Oh we need to impress the Altus, so to gain favour’  
His unknown suitor, what else could he call the person, made gifts which fit. Not Dorian Pavus, Altus Mage and Necromancer…they did fit Dorian the person.  
The young man with too much on his mind, the chess player, the formerly pampered heir whose muscles ached after hard fights and who didn´t have the courage to tell the healers about those minor aliments that plagued every normal person. But that wasn´t his image, he wasn´t normal, he didn´t have every day alliments, aches like every commoner would have them.  
Backpain, headache, stubbed toe..suck it up boy and move on.  
You couldn´t have the perfect, flawless and witty mage walking with a cranked back or favouring one foot over the other.  
He couldn´t ask for help for the small things, it would destroy his image.  
He didn´t dare to take the mask of, he hid behind the personality he displayed for everyone, including himself.  
With this mask he could be confident, strong, deflect hurtfull comments and stares.  
He didn´t dare to take off his mask, because he didn´t believe that anyone would put him back together if he shattered without his mask.

And there are the gifts, working cracks into …into everything.  
How laughable, he knows that other people, not as stuck up or caught into what was proper, would have been just as overjoyed about a well blended tea…but to go through it himself, that was something else alltogether.  
There was no one here to whom he had to display the ingrained response to inferior gifts.  
Here in his chamber he could enjoy every gift and if there is someone out there who uses the gifts to weaken his defenses to dispatch him more easily….he realises he doesn´t really care, at least he dies happy.

The petite vessel on his night table, containing a blend of high quality fats and essential oils dimishes the headache as he dabs a spot of ointment on his temples.  
Maybe just a lucky guess, maybe someone really tries to get to know him and concluded with his frequent visits and heavy indulgence in the spirits there, that he might need something to help him get back on track in the mornings.

He starts to care less about what he was brought up with, even when they more often than not attack his mind in the voice of his mother and instructors, belitteling him.  
Well, they didn´t care about his choices, so he shouldn´t care about what they would want from him, what they taught him..and it is high time he eats his own words and starts to go through with it instead of just pretending in front of others.

The next time they are outside the walls on a mission he stops to smell some flowers, some common, useless wildflowers who don´t have any purpose in a mages household…and he smiles.


	3. Bittersweet spring love  part 1 of 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Dorian realises that there is something fundamental different about him.  
> A kiss taken under the magnolia tree, more confusion than answers. 
> 
> 12 year old Dorian and slightly older teenager, first kiss and many heavy thoughts about what is going on and how he can turn back to normal, because that is expected of him.  
> Everything will turn back to normal once he has taken care of his overflowing libido, or not?
> 
> Mention of young teenagers/kids drinking alcohol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the authors of the game, Tevinter is heavily leaning onto the roman empire. 
> 
> In the roman empire, boys of 14 years would undergo the rites of adulthood and be delcared adults, taken in by a mentor. And watered down wine for kids 5 to 10 years and unwatered wine when reaching 10 years was normal during festivities.
> 
> Homosexuality was not per se prohibited, but underlay certain rules.  
> Roman men were free to enjoy sex with other males without a perceived loss of masculinity or social status, as long as they took the dominant or penetrative role. Acceptable male partners were slaves, prostitutes, and entertainers, whose lifestyle placed them in the nebulous social realm of infamia, excluded from the normal protections accorded a citizen even if they were technically free.
> 
>  
> 
> In the Tevinter society such unsavory acts are tolerated as long as they are hidden and done in secret…and the afflicted men have a ‘normal’ family, fathering children and so on.

Dorian had always felt different.  
Part of this, is what every child feels sometimes.  
Because every child is different and society wants every child to fit into the patterns that are the norm, every child sometimes feels inferior, in the wrong place, different.

But Dorian, for him it is something more.  
Even before he could walk, the training started to make him into the perfect heir.  
The older he got, the more rules he had to follow, the more he had to act.  
Especially on to know how to act exactly, appropriate in every situation.  
Riding, dancing, writing down the perfect responses to letters after having decoded the hidden meaning.   
He still strives to be better than the other children his own age.  
He will not be a child for much longer.  
Only some years, than he will go through the rites of adulthood, challenging a demon in the Fade and get accepted by a mentor to learn more about magic, demons and political matters.

For now following his studies is a bit far from his mind.  
His mind is uncomfortably occupied by…different things.  
Father had spoken to him about obligations to his family, to his name.  
Already there were other families lining up their daughters in a bid for becoming his spouse.

Last week there had been a small gathering, a garden party. Only a couple of dozen people, lounging under sunscreens, eating pastries and drinking wine.  
He doesn´t like wine very much, but during such events it is expected that everyone who is reaching his tenth year of life, is also parttaking in drinking alcohol.  
It is part of his life, learning to like it. Not that the younger children get much wine.  
Small, delicate glasses with golden rim, nipping on the wine, acting like adults.

Still, even just the few mouthfull of wine had been enough to stir a strange feeling in him.  
It happens every time he drinks, just this time, there had been something different.  
Because he is already at an age where betrothal contracts are drafted, his tutors have educated him in certain…matters.  
It could be that these teachings made him more aware of the tickling sensation in his gut..a sensation that began to swirl whenever…oh he had heard the other young men talking about the assets of certain ladies.  
He had seen how they had stolen glances, or how one of the lads even went inside, following one of the young women to the fainting room.  
Unfortunately it was then that he had realised how the womanly silhouette did nothin for him.  
The swell of breasts peaking out slightly from the neckline, pressed together by a corsette, nothing.  
Oh sure, he had flirted, complimented them for their choice in clothes, the hats, jewelry ..because that is what he had been taught.   
Maybe he even had broken some hearts, who knew? Oh he can dance so well, his dancepartners did tell him that all the time, the ladies swoon and the gentlemen envy him.  
…the tickling warm sensation had welled up whenever he had seen this particular boy.

He chuckles as he remembers how some of the girls had pouted when he declined their invitations to saunter in the garden.  
The girl who pretended to faint on him had been especially amusing as he had foisted her off, naturally only with the best of manners and proper regulations so that she had been taken by her governess and handmaidens to the fainting room.Oh how she had glared at him when nobody had been looking.

These thoughts bring him back to a problem which had arisen at the garden party.  
Something had made his guts flutter, or rather…someone.   
That had been the first time he really had thought about all the times where he had seen a handsome boy…or handsome man and it had bothered him.   
This certain lightheadedness, the wish to draw nearer. He has no idea how to describe what he feels in those moments, that his interest is piqued by the same fine men that make the ladies swoon.

He knows better than to ask his tutors or his parents about those things.  
His father might be more mellow with him, but he isn´t feeling comfortable enough to ask such things.  
Not when his tutors and the books he has to study, speak about such desires as deviant, unhealthy, wrong.  
One tutor had explained that because men have such strong bodies, that their libido is more untamed, wilder than those of the members of the female gender.  
And because with growth, also the libido grows and fluctuates, it sometimes goes the wrong way.  
Like a river, held up by a damn, that starts to flood the fields around it after a heavy rain.  
Puberty is a heavy rain and his libido feels like an overflowing river at times, that is for sure.

According to his lectures, those feelings should revert back to normal as soon as he has an outlet, a proper wife to sate his libido with, and young men are advised to ease the pressure by entertaining themselves with non-class citizens.

His problem is that this idea has no appeal to him. He can´t bring himself to feel the same spark when looking at the young ladies, so how could he ease the pressure with them when said pressure is just not there with them?  
And paying a courtisan, or even a prostitute?  
Hah, no he has seen how that can end, the uncle of a friend had fallen ill, another one murdered by an assasin who had posed as a courtisan.  
And even if…the thought of buying release does not sit well.  
Even less the idea to slate his lust on one of the servants.  
Those incidents were never spoken about, but they happened at every event, party, gathering he had been invited to attend.  
Years ago he hadn´t known what the lord had done with the servant girl, it had been his first glimpse into something sexual and it had not looked appealing.

The promise to never do such a thing is still lively in his mind. The girl had been not much older than the lords daughter, she had cried the whole time and the undignified grunts of the burly man had frightened him. As a boy of merely six years he hadn´t known what the words meant. Just that they had made the girl cry harder and ..she had bleed. After the man had gone, he went to her.

Oh he had been frightened out of his wits, but as a child you have a different outlook and he had wanted to help her. He couldn´t stand the crying, her sad face.  
It still tugged at his heart when he thinks about her and only now he understands what had occurred, what the words meant.  
The anger is fresh, always fresh. He just wishes he could change it, everything.  
This is why he needs to be better, so he can become someone important enough.  
His father wants that also, their reasons are different but the goal is the same.

Than his mother had entered the courtyard and found him crouching in front of a knife-ear.  
Whenever he thinks of the incident, his ear smarts anew in remembered pain and humilation.  
His mother had been so very angry and pulled him out of the courtyard, through the salon and he went home with a couple of servants to be put to bed.  
Obviously he had embarassed her, not only by sneaking off but also by showing concern for someone lower than a streetdog.

He understands that the servants are different to him. They have no magic, they are from a different race, they are born different.   
His father holds the stance that they should still be treated decent, because just like a racehorse, a servant works better when well feed, well housed and treated decent.  
Should he be ashamed that he didn´t question those things when he had been younger?

In a frustrated outburst he pushes his quill to hard and the tip breaks, ink spilling over parchment when the inkwell topples and he curses, ringing the bell for a servant to take care of the stains that are now on the carpet.  
He needs fresh air, a fast paced march trough the gardens always eases him back into calmness.  
His essay forgotten he walks down into the courtyard, to the rose garden.  
The roses are in full bloom, so heavy that many of them are kept from touching the ground by using wire and spaliers as a crutch for the overburdened plants.  
It never fails to make him take a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment and just letting go of the things that ail him.

Only this time it doesn´t work properly.   
Between the rose bushes grows Salvia, Lavendula, Thyme and other herbs to keep bugs away.  
The herbs are also used in the kitchen and one of the kitchenboys is cutting bushels from the plants.  
“Ser Dorian” the elf boy greets him and cuts more herbs. The servants are much less …skittish around him as they are around his parents. At least when neither of his parents or their guests are there to see the different, respectless behaviour.  
“Treyn..” normally he banters with the boy, today he just doesn´t have the right mind for that and he doesn´t need to pretend, not in front of Treyn or the other servants.  
“Something on your mind Ser Dorian?” Treyn has grown up here, he is neither brother nor friend, just a servant and it is his own fault that he doesn´t see Treyn in the right, proper way his parents try to teach him. He acts the right way, it just gets too much sometimes.  
“Always the same, studying, mother..father and the possible engagements, nothing new”  
They don´t talk often, Treyn has too much work to do and since he works in the kitchen the encounters are rare.  
“If I dare to say so, you don´t sound happy about finding a bride”  
“Well, they are young and childish and I wouldn´t have time anyway for a bride with all my studies” he shrugs and wanders off, searching for a light breeze and the shade of the magnolia trees who complement the roses with their growth.

He twitches as Treyn speaks up. He didn’t hear him approach and he was somewhere else with his thoughts. Normally when he is in the rose garden, leaning on his favourite tree, no one else is there. “Ser, it may be bold but you look more stressed than other times”  
“Merde, what is it with you and those silent, sneaky feet of yours. You could have killed me” he jokes with a mocking ernest face.  
This is where his thoughts stray again, to the book and what he had read there..getting the overflowing libido out of his system. He stares a bit too long at the elf, contemplaiting these absurd thoughts. He had sworn himself never to abuse someone in such a way. But…the girls at the garden party had seemed all too eager to get away with the boys…so maybe…  
“Dorian?” his name without the proper honorific makes him twitch again and stand straight.  
“What is it Treyn…ahm…well if you are so concerned about me and how stressed I am, would you care to help me with an experiment to test if this stress can be eased with certain strategies?” the confident swagger of his is already in the making and needs only some time to get groomed into perfection, but for him, a teenager, that is more than enough.  
He doesn´t know that Treyn is more sophisticated in the art of the flesh than himself, how could he?   
Dorian is surprised and a bit frightened when Treyn just grins and approaches him with confidence…and suddenly the young mages feels more like a small animal in front of a wild dog.  
“Oh Ser Dorian, certainly I can help to ease your stress and experiment with you to find the right solution”  
The young mages leans against the trunk of the tree, for the moment extremly flustered and starring with questioning eyes at the older elf.  
Dorian does´t know what to make of it as Treyn puts a hand next to his head on the tree trunk and leans close “A kiss for the moment, Ser?”  
Before Dorian can answer the elf has laid lips on his mouth. A dry, soft kiss. Nothing more, chaste and…it still dazes him, makes him blush.  
“I have to go back to the kitchen..but if you are interested in more experiments to lower the ammount of stress you feel, I would be willing to help. Tomorrow, same time, here?”  
Dorian nods, still speechless and with wide eyes, blinking rapidly.  
“Until tomorrow Ser Dorian” a soft touch to his neck before the elf shoves himself away from the trunk and goes back to pick the basket up, sprinting to the kitchen before one of the cooks sends a maid in search of him.

Dorian is dumbstrucks and stays where he is for a few moments more. There is no need for him to rush somewhere. First he has to put his mask back up, slow down his heartbeat.   
Someone might otherwise see that there is something wrong with him.  
Overflowing libido, thats for sure, it has hit him like a kick from his horse.  
His libido is so deep in the wrong riverbeed, running like wildwater, that he doesn’t know if he ever can right it and reign it back into the proper channels.  
According to the book his amorous misgivings should vanish when he has exhausted himself well and proper. Luckily Treyn seems to have a better understanding of the mechanics than he himself has.  
The funny feeling doesn´t go away, but it ebbs out and he feels able to retreat back to his rooms. Now he understands why the boys are so eager to flock away with the girls, but when he thinks about the girls who have made avances on him, there is no flare, no tingling and warm sensation as he had felt when Treyn had cornered and kissed him.

Certainly that is no matter he can bring up with either of his parents or tutors, maybe there are some more boks in the library concering this disorder and how to work through it.  
And so his steps lead him to the next goal, the library. The other research can wait, with how he feels it seems impossible for him to concentrate on the old tomes he needs to heave for his essay.


	4. Heal the darkness for the Quon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dragon...not your ordinary one. Explaining why the Qun is not the Quon and how someone fucked it up pretty badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dream I had last night..I don´t know where or if it might fit...maybe a different story with the Inquisitor as a Quonari.
> 
> I call it 'When dragons talk, you listen'
> 
> At the end is a chant, words sung to the eerie melody of 'Midnight' from the band Coldplay.My dreams are entertaining.
> 
> In the beginning, when the world was young, there were no magic words spoken, there was only song magic. No spells and chants written down, pure intention and power put behind words, following your desire. Rules may give safety, but also limits and therefor limit oneself.
> 
> Nope, I have not taken any strange substances...these dreams just happen...and it was a fairly normal one.   
> Not the first time I wish that one could record dreams with a cam and replay them when awake..awesome movies those would be.

“What if I told you, that Koslun was no Ashkaari?   
That his teachings are not his own and the scripture had been broken, mixed with half truths and outright lies before he bound it into the so called Tome of Koslun?”  
The old Quonari is overlooking the whirling waterfall which rushes over stones, falling into dark depths as it vanishes into the cave the river has dug into the mountain.  
Exotic greenery has overgrown the pillars and beams of polished marble behind them.   
This part of the mountain had been carefully carved into a temple so as not to disturb its natural structure.

“The Qun is missig important parts, teachings that are still there, burried under words of war, fight and opression.”  
Long white hair falls over the Quonaris back as he moves his head to look at the person beside him. An old, wrinkled face, calm and somehow otherwordly, beardless, old and ageless…the time has etched many stories into the dark grey skin.  
“One story of many, every Pantheon of gods carries those within the scriptures. You only have to look for it…not with want but with your heart, a wish for knowledge and peace.”  
He looks back over the landscape, the river that turns into a waterfall under the cliff they are sitting upon. The eerie calm seems to penetrate everything.

“Where the Qun teaches force to enlighten others, the Quon enlightens through kindness and knowledge” his voice is resonating in ones body, a deep melody like rolling thunder and boulders thumbling from a mountain side without any of the danger.  
“Honor and duty never meant that you had to loose your own way, your wishes and desires or your personality. Devotion for the Quon is love…unfortunately in the Qun it was warped, so as you love not each other, but the scripture..and the scripture is a thing, not meant to be loved, but to be used and to love the living world around you”  
He breathes deep and exhales, blinking slowly  
“The Quon is love, respect, emphaty, but also fierciness like wildfire, a storm and the crushing waves of the sea who can bring down mountains, to protect, not to destroy.”

The delicate chains which adore the wide, arching horns, tinkle softly.  
“Where the Qun uses the Tamassrans to breed Ari for the purpose of serving, they were serving the Quon to find ones perfect match, to find harmony in a symphonie of chaos.  
Their purpose was to help every ari find bliss with those around them.”  
He smiles and laughs mildly ”Not having marriages or similar bounds, that they still have ingrained, but in the Quon there are no marriage ceremonies because non are necessary.  
Love is not bound to a contract or needs to be cemented by a ceremony between two people. Love is universal and as long as you love, it doesn´t matter whom or how many as long as you love them with your whole heart and in the perfect way that fits them. Some love is platonic, others are far away and you see them rarely. But when you meet each other again, it is as you have never been seperated. You meet and go forth from where you have started.”  
The next part is said with great remorse.  
“Children were not meant to be raised apart from their parents, without the affection of a family. The Qun wants to train them, the Quon wants to let them grow and nurture them the way they reach for their light. The Qun binds and cuts and bends them to what it needs from them. In the Quon, children are raised and taught by everyone, so that they may have the best opportunities.   
The Qun warped it and its purpose, so as instead of having everyone to fall onto when the need arises, they have made it so, so that they can not find hold in anyone, only the rules that have been made up”  
“We are all one, living beings on this world to walk, to bloom with our full capacity while the Qun does not want anyone to bloom and wants t use those energys for its own gain.  
The Qun wants a rose garden, preened and plucked and put into geometrical order, killing off any wildflowers by keeping the grass short.”  
“The Quon wants nothing, the Quon just is there to watch growth, to see what grows, how much and where to its best abilities. Sometimes there might arise the need to prune a bit when a fruit bearing branch would otherwise break, to pluck those blooms which are hidering each others growth. The Qun would instead cut off the whole limb, or the tree”

“Much has been lost or twisted so that the words which are there, mean something else than what they are meant to be.”  
The old Quonari stands up slowly with a grace that belies his age, he waves his hand and wants to move on.  
Stairs which are groomed tree roots and vines lead up the side of the mountain. It is a steep climb. When one looks down, there is the top of the trees, the forest painting different shades of green, speckled with other colours.  
The light shade of blue that is the river, the grey and brown colours that make up the mountain tops where plants can not grow in such a rich manner.

Flocks of birds sail over the trees, some vanishing in the greenery and the old Quonari stops for a second to let a viper pass the path before he resumes his climb.  
“Instead of nurturing love, the Qun tries to weed it out” he scoffs, the first sound that is not as calm and collected as his overall speech.  
“Love is what makes us, like water that makes up the river. If they would succeed in breeding out the ability to love, they would extinct themselves.   
Imagine birds that have lost the knowledge how to care for their offspring, this is what love is.   
And to stoke fear, the Qun paints the Ari as beasts who would destroy everything around them if not forced into chains by the scripture, so the Ari are fearing to leave the Qun.   
Or that those who have gotten away, will either be hunted, or use it as an excuse to act less than they are, to plunder and kill aimlessly.   
The Ari are taught to be savages, that only the Qun can tame their nature.  
In reality the Ari are no more savage beasts than other races. But unfortunately it is easier to put all the responsibilites to be a decent being onto a book full of halftruths and walk blindly, lead around the one eyed.”

Than he reaches a ledge that protrudes outwards, where a cave digs deep into the mountain, the entrance framed by braids of tangled vines which waver lightly in the breeze.  
“To compare the Qun to the Quon, would be comparing the snout of a dragon to the whole dragon. They think they have seen the whole truth. In reality they have only encountered sharp teeth and gleaming eyes, leading them onto a path of destruction. They think they mean well and in parts, they do well. But one right doesn´t erase a mountain of wrongs.  
When the time is right the Brahman will manifest the three Avatari. The Atman will bring Destruction, Change and Creation”  
His violet eyes hold knowledge that is not meant to be told, it is meant to be experienced.   
“The Quon had been told and the Qun was written down. Pages with crinkles of paint which are meant to be burnt, they mean nothing.   
In reality the only weight they hold is given by those who are lead astray from their path. The energy which would make them live to their fullest is misused. The pain that had been wrought over centuries, can not be erased hastely. Just as much time was needed to bring forth pain, is needed to calm wounded hearts and souls.   
The Quon is everywhere, in everyone who follows that what is right, not because it is written down, but because our spirit tells us so. Goodness has to come from the inside, not from an outside force. Love does not force, but it can defend and fight to protect those who are vulnerable.”

The old Quonari stands still, lifting his hands to fold over the middle of his chest as he watches the sky,the peacefull valley framed by mountains, stretching so far as one can imagine.  
Than there is a shift in the air, like a gust of wind, a tremble in the mountains and a soundlees boom.  
Once the form of an old man, which stretches, crashing waves which shake the cliff and make one take a step backwards as to not be drawn into the sea, a dragon emerges. The blue robe stretches and ripples, melding with the grey of scales and blackness of horns.  
Blue speckles the hide that is not the one of snakes, but also not as grooved and rough as those of other dragons. Gold chains tinker, wound around horns, swinging freely until they hit a protruding neckscale only to swing back.  
“Don´t forget, a dragon is more than a set of sharp teeth and predatory eyes” he rumbles, the voice the same timber as before.  
Then he jumps high into the air and forward, opening his wings before gravity can take hold and pull him back down, sailing through the air and keeping himself in the air with calculated wingbeats as to use only the necessary force, not more than needed.

“Don´t forget when you…. wake up”

 

 

 

Heal the darkness for the Quon.  
Heal the sadness from the stone.  
Looking round, look all around   
without putrid thoughts and scorn.  
Heal the light, blight move on.

 

Hear the mountains, lost from home  
Heal the sadness, sweaping on  
No longer drowning, leave the sadness,  
A plead from thorns  
Heal the light, oh Larharon

 

‘melodic howling’

Leave only lightness, oh Larharon  
Feel the brightness, set to stone.

Heal the darkness for the Quon  
Feel the darkness moving on  
Heal the light, oh Larharon  
Feel the light, moving on.


	5. Unexperienced thumbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teenaged Dorian meets up with Treyn again. Going too fast, too far-might trigger-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah well, the romanticized first time, but how well do those things work out?  
> One has a more or less well detailed idea how it should work, but the theorie is very different to what happens in reality.
> 
> Guess for most of us it didn´t work out as well as we hoped, especially if one is on the recieving end and trusts his/her partner to know what is going on.
> 
> Not an enjoyable story per se, but one which is another stepping stone in building Dorian up into the man he is in my mind.  
> He realises he doesn´t have to take it and endure it, and it might be the first deviant reaction since forever, doing what he wants and not following a lead as his father has trained him to do, to endure, work through it, not have a mind of his own if it clashes with his education(Dorian sees it as educating himself)
> 
> There are enough individuals who just lay back, gnash their teeth and take it because it has to get better(because everyone says so, peer pressure and having it ingrained to follow instead of reacting), but Dorian doesn´t lay back.   
> He does what he thinks is the right thing, better form him, and this is the point where the foundation of his rebellious nature is awakened.
> 
> This one act where he doesn´t endure and acts in his own interest, this is where I see the beginnings of the adult Dorian, no matter how small the deed seems.

Anxiety makes him swallow, but his throat is too dry for it to help any.  
He tries not to pace, just leaning against the tree should be fine.  
No one should miss him for now. There is still a bit more than an hour until lunch and no one thinks about him twice, going into the garden. He does it often enough for relaxation after his studies are done.  
Hah, relaxation and what for one.  
He is still a boy, no matter how good he can impersonate the man his father wants him to be.  
Reading up on the mechanics is surely different to what happens in reality and he is nervous.  
Nervous is not the right word, he doesn´t want to think about how he feels.  
Frightened, excited, like his head is filled with cotton and his chest is getting tighter with every breath.

Damn sneaky, silent elves…Treyn has moved as silently as a mouse and now stands at his back, the trunk between them and blows into his ears which makes him jump and whirl around. “Oh you can count yourself lucky, what if I had shoot you?” The unstrung feeling fades minimally, just to boil up again much worse as the elf grins and pulls him close under the cover of the magnolia trees. No one in the chateau will see them, also because they are far enough away.  
He had counted on getting kissed again, more or less, no if he doesn´t lie to himself, he had hoped for it. Just that his mind did everything to question himself, the elf, their situation…  
That Treyn knows a bit more about certain things becomes clear when he licks at Dorians lips and shoves his tongue unceremoniously between them.   
He is not sure if he likes it, the feeling is alien and…well he has someones tongue in his mouth, that should give one pause if one thinks about it..someones tongue…  
Eyes which had flewn open in surprise, now close softly. This can´t be more difficult than the dancing lessons he had to undergo. He hated them in the beginning, but his father wanted him to undergo those lections.  
Now he enjoys dancing even when the start had been bad, boring, feet hurting...  
Yes, dancing is a good metaphor. Two people moving together…exactly why is he thinking so much???  
Vexed about his mind that leaps around like a bunch of fleas, the next moment that flies out the window as Treyn directs him backwards. Further in this part of the garden is a pavilion which isn´t really in use, but kept under perfect conditions if it might be needed in the future.

Seems that ‘someone’ has already made use of the place, because a blanket is spread out on the floor of the pavilion. “Thought that might be more fitting, to have a place where we can sit and you aren´t in danger of dirtying your clothes” Treyn murmers into his ear, kissing the spot under it and making him break out into a full body shiver.   
The part with the tongue in his mouth, he hasn´t yet decided if he likes it or not.  
The touches and especially the lips on his neck feel nice, if that goes on, he isn´t adversed to it.  
“And with all the touching, your knees might get a bit weak, sitting down is more practicable” Treyn argues as he herds him up the stairs and puts pressure on his shoulder so he sits down.  
At least the blanket is clean, a bit scratchy but nothing that will mess his clothing up.  
He does not know where this will go, desperation is a heavy weight on his chest, to get this ailment that plaques him reduced, or for the best outcome, healed.  
He mustn´t dissapoint his father.  
Distraced by his thoughts for the moments he startles when a cool hand touches his chest, his shirt shoved upwards.”Maybe you should loose that jacket, it is a bit constricting, is it not?”  
Treyn helps him to pull it off and folds it neatly before it is forgotten at the side when the kitchen servant is leaning over him, another kiss and delightfull shiver as fingers rub over a nipple, but that borders soon on uncomfortable as the surrounding flesh is kneaded with too much force, too roughly, but he doesn´t dare to object, only wriggles and somehow it also feels good.  
And aren´t all lessons bothersome and uncomfortable in the beginning?  
His embarassment originates from the lack of knowledge, looking like a fool, someone who hasn´t a clue..not acceptable.  
So he acts as he always does, replays the touches with some variation as Treyn does unto him.

The way in which Treyn is partially mauling his chest with too rough fingers is not his favourite part, but as the elf draps a leg between his own and inches over him, that stirrs more heat up.  
One has to take the good with the bad, or not get anything. Also a lesson he has learned quite early and which he now applies to this situation.

Treyn has absolutely more knowledge than him in this area, he tries to trust him, it feels good and he is curious how it will work.   
The other scholars seem to be addicted to …this…sex thing. Him being the only one who has no experience, if that would get out, they would laugh about him.  
He squishes the squeamish curdling sensation is his gut, he had been taught not to trust his feelings, to ignore them and go after the goal no matter what.  
So again he ignores the slightly sick feeling and helps to remove his breeches, wriggling out of them..and doesn´t that hand on his manhood feel good?

He sighs, but before he can savour the touch which soothes the yearning, Treyn grabs his hand and shoves it down into the much cheaper pair which the elf wears.  
Any idea what he should do? No, absolutely not, so he again mimics what the elf does to him.  
Just that with concentration on doing it right and trying to learn as much as he can, he is unable to relax fully. This might be why the touches which are bestowed on him feel strangely muted, not as satisfying as first.  
Treyn is warm and not really hard, but getting there. Strange to touch an other male in this area.  
Treyn is still his friendly, smiling self, but he feels so disturbed and befuddled. Not that he would ever show it, just pressing onward, forward, a task to solve.

He twitches and breaks the kiss as Treyn shoves his hand away, a musky smell wafting with it and than a warm and slimy penis rubs against him…the thought is somehow disturbing..penis..strange word, but he can not find any endearing thoughts and words for it.  
It frightens him, but he still doesn´t protest because..well..experience and also wanting to get rid off the wrongness that ails him.

Unfortunatel for Dorian, Treyn has not as much experience as he thinks and also works mostly with what he has heard from others, dirty talk in the kitchen and the quarters.

The pain as Treyn shoves forward and breaches him, is sharp and makes him hiss.  
“Stop…take it out” his voice is taut and he shoves against Treyns chest.  
“Now just wait it gets better, it won´t break you, you get used to it” Treyn tries to win him over, but Dorian will have none of it and wriggles, shoves hard and electricity zipps from his fingertips so Treyn slips free with a yelp.  
“Ow…now come on, we had fun, it felt good, didn´t it?” the kitchen servant tries to reason as Dorian angrily but with care puts his trousers back on as not to make himself more uncomfortable by moving too fast.  
“The kisses were nice but I don´t have any interest in enduring this pain and you don´t seem to have the knowledge how to do it any different…get used to it, oh that will surely ease my stress” he mocks chagrined and pull himself up on the lattice of the pavilion.  
“Now listen..” Dorian rounds on him, electricity again buzzing around his fingers like an angry bee “No. I won´t listen” and Treyn backs away, because he is quite sure that Dorian will hurt him otherwise. Dorian storms off, back to the house, shirt and jacket askew.

“Cretin” he grouses. It had started so well and then..an error he won´t make again, that is for sure. Yes, he has no real experience but he is sure that it shouldn´t hurt quite as much.  
His mood is foul for the rest of the day, but no one mentions it, or acts different.  
This experience spurs him into more research, for the moment at least his overflowing libido seems to have crawled in a ditch and died there. So he has enough peace to make some decisions, including the one that he needs someone who really has more experience, someone whom the other scholars talk about and he can verify it.  
He has absolutely no interest in repeating that experience, but he really, really would have liked some more kisses.  
Unfortunately what happened after the kisses turns him off from wanting any more kisses for the foreseeable future….because now the kisses would remind him of the humilation and pain he had felt in this one moment..and how his ‘partner’ hadn´t cared about that.  
He asks himself if he is too touchy, too delicate or maybe elves are just rough by nature?  
Maybe he needs to find someone from his own circles, not follow the siren call of a kitchen servant.  
At least it wasn´t a total loss and he knows that he likes kisses…and tender touches on his chest, not the rough grabbing that took over the next moment and made him feel so…uncomfortable.  
Yes, the fault has to lay with Treyns race. The students in his own social circle seem to be delighted, even starved for ‘going on a walk’. He doesn´t think that they would be so eager if they experienced the same pain he had.

 

For the next few days he ponders how to find someone to help with a cure for him, where to find this someone and how to approach him…


	6. Motherly encouragement, motherly rage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a secret in the emerald graves. Something that goes much deeper than an accident. The note is not the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://img2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20150214202319/dragonage/images/4/4f/Motherly-Encouragement-Journal.png
> 
> Read the note...understand the note and lift the secret which dwells in the cottage.
> 
> Has anyone really read and understood the note? I can not be the only one who wanted to meet 'Mother'. The mission does no end with finding the note, does it?
> 
> It irks me soooo much that there is no mention about that to be found online, no one ever gotten suspicious? No forum threads about that?
> 
> Personally my mind conjured something similiar to Silence of the Lambs...

She has found a body in the riverbed.   
It was a close call or she would have missed the woman, whose body swayed slightly in the stream, held in place by stones that stopped her drift downwards.  
“Mother don´t leave me, a good girl..good girl I be, precious garden, rosehip. Yves, shivering rain, needle pins, laughter, crying..mother” Cole murmers with his eyes looking slightly beyond the body.  
“She needs the tea, mother is ill, she is ill herself, they are all wrong”  
The Inquisitor is peering at Cole.  
The others have gotten more comfortable with his strange behaviour and that only Solas and she herself seem to make sense of his words when he is ‘otherworldly’.

 

“Boss, you wanna check that out?”  
“As far as Cole said, there could be more people..one or all of them ill and they might need help.” She looks back at Bull.   
“Let us get going” Dorian has lead her horse next to his as they went into the river  
“I hope we are not chasing ghosts, but I have learned to trust your instincts and you seem terrible on edge”  
“I have a…strange feeling. But even if we are chasing ghosts, at least we are chasing something” she smiles at Dorian and lets her horse go forward.  
With the uneven riverbed the animals take care in not mistaking a step. It is easier to just go forward in the river. The bank is often too step, uneven and they would have to take detours. Staying in the riverbed is simpler and faster at the end.

It takes some time until the find the place where it had happened.  
There is blood on a rock. Vegetation ripped, twigs broken, vestiges of her futile tries, she hadn´t gotten any grip as she fell from the cliff. She didn´t have any chance to survive that, even as a trained warrior the Inquisitor would be wary to climb such an area.  
“We just need to find a way up there, it is too step here but…there” she points upwards “…seems as if the hill is more climbable, if I would have to guess there is even a path..” she can not see it clearly but as far as the low growing vegetation looks it had been a path well used once.

“The body looked fresh, merely a day, not more” Varric voices “At least if there are sick people, they should not be too bad off if their main care taker took the plunge”  
“There is defenitely a sickness there. It could be felt around the body..” it is not a question from Solas, he knows it as good as she does that there is more to it.  
“Didn’t have any visible injuries, only the ones from the fall. ”  
It is funny how different the area looks as they have reached the top of the cliff. It stretches on into a beautiful forest, and the riverbed just plunges down like cut with a hot knife into lard.  
“Do you think there might be demons involved?”  
“Does this answer your question, Bull?” she points to a gleaming area in the woods that has come into view, annoyance in her voice for the demons that pop out of thin air everywhere.

The demons are dispatched effectively and the rift closed.   
“There, misery..” Cole points forward, but there is nothing to see. So maybe he means..  
If the young woman hadn´t fallen to her death here, it would have been a romantic spot. Boulders overgrown with moss, framing a small groove that overlocks the valley.   
The perfect place for couples to meet and exchange shy touches.   
The flowers on the crystal grace tingle in the wind, a soft melody..and more of them grow down the side of the mountain.   
There on the edge is a fresh break, raw earth and stone where part of the crag had crumbled…and the woman fell to her death.  
And than the body had been washed down the stream until it got caught between rocks and the river couldn´t get it loose anymore.  
“Soft tinkle, dreams, home, sunshine, laughter, all broken. Mother is not here, but she is”  
Bull has bowed down to grab the basket, a leather bound journal is resting between welted blossoms “Boss?” he holds out the book, her curiotisy with books is only rivaled by Dorian and Solas, especially books where something personal may be written to help save people and solve puzzles.

At first it looks like a normal journal…  
Leaving Orlais, not wanting to go to Ferelden.  
Leaving behind Mothers garden behind after she passed away…  
“That is…” her brow furrows together as she reads further and the woman writes how happy she is that Mother is with them because mother always knows best…  
“Here, look” she squats, laying down the book on a stone so everyone can take a look without butting heads.  
“There she writes her Mother passed away…and further down she writes that the mother is with them and she is happy that she is there..up here she writes about a family member and her son and later she seems to have forgotten about the son, even thinks he is a dog?”  
“Either the girl got crazy after her friend moved away with the son and left her, or..demons” Varric grumbles, Bull grumbles also “Don´t like the picture that it paints..mind magic”  
“They are hurt, she thought it would help” Cole is staring off into a certain direction to which they encourage their mounts to move.

The emerald graves, such a beautiful and sad name. If she dies she would prefer a tree to be planted on her grave instead of a headstone. Than she shakes the thoughts away, she really shouldn´t think about her own funeral, whenever that might be.  
“So many damn cliffs..” protruding from the ground, jutting up and oh surprise, an old ruin with a small cottage nestled near a wall that was cut from the cliff, stairs and more walls, columns. The mute witnesses of long lost times.

A beautifull little garden, the cottage looks homely and as they dismount, opening the gate to walk along the path to the house….well that certainly looks like the interior of a small cottage as they open the door after knocking briefly, sunlight streaming through a window,kitchen on one side, the living area around the tiled stove with a cat and her kittens sleeping on the bench and an older woman knitting in a rocking chair.  
The woman has stopped the clinking of her knitting needles, the cats yawning and stretching.  
“Hello Mother” The Inquisitor greets the woman.  
“Oh hello my dear, cup of tea? Awfull long day it was..have you brought your friends?”  
She stands, knittings still in one hand and shuffles to the table where a pot of tea and cups are arranged.  
“No thanks, Solas doesn´t like tea, but maybe some mead for Varric and frilly cakes to go with it”  
The next moment a hand darts forward, knitting needles glinting in the false sunlight, but fall short as the illousion gurgles and falls backwards, a dagger imbedded in her throat.  
“She is not very motherly..she is Mother, and not” Cole collects his dagger.  
The interior of a cottage is still there and the cats don´t seem to have any care for their guests or what happened.  
“Everything here is…just wishes and yearnings” she recognizes it as that what was written in the journal…the cats, the cottage and out of the window she can see the garden which the dead woman had missed so much.  
“Can we burn it down?”  
“No Varric, not yet…who knows what might burn down with it”  
“Ah, yes..the woman and her son and maybe others”  
She thinks about touching the table, maybe the window. But the second door that seems to lead to a different room in the cottage, might be the best try and she reaches for the knob.  
“No” Solas shouts, but it is too late as her fingertips touch the metall and there are flashes, different cottages, huts, tents and even the building that now lays in ruins. People laughing, screaming, dancing and than suffering in filth and darkness.

Since when can doors bleed? A strange thought, an even stranger occurrence as Solas’s staff has impailed the door which twitches, withers and jowls in wounded moans as the illousion falls, together with it  
“Bianca…” not the crossbow. A dwarfen woman, than Cole, but the real one in a dank cell… Dorians father, smiling, the room in the tavern has flickered into existence, a strange organic building, than the illousions shatters for good.

The real cottage is small and sparsely furnished, but in good condition, just like the path down to the river it was most likely abandoned only some months ago, half a year, one year the most.  
A hatch is on the floor, between the robust table and a matress of straw.  
“Guess you keep watch up here Bull, the hatch here is not wide enough for you. Dorian, I would like for you to stay here also, if anything else pops up. And you don´t have to climb down dusty, dark holes.” She tries to joke and Dorian goes with it, just for the sake of not giving into fear.  
“I will be forever grateful Mylady. I just can´t stand all those cobwebs, they are surprisingly hard to get away from clothes once they have caught hold, dreadfull.”  
“She thinks her sister has abandoned her, just a ghost, serene smile and confusion”  
Cole is already jumping down before she can stop him and she murmers under her breath  
“Now I know how older sisters feel with a reckless younger brother…”   
The ladder is in similar condition as the cottage,but what they see as they reach the bottom…  
“Well, tickle me sidewise with a nug” she huffs  
“Nugs are good with tickling. Tickly ears, soft, warm..” Cole drifts and snaps back to the task on hand, stepping forwards as she lightens the torches with magic and Solas casts protective spells on them.  
“ Dungeons from the ruins above” Solas strides on, looking into the cells which are not only dry, but also laid out with dried fern and straw, leaves which are too new to have been here for long. Not broken, crumbly, having lost their colour.

As they round the corner, the corridor vanishes and …

There is no rift, but a demon which tries to sent new imaginary things at them, Solas dispelling them, Cole slicing them into pieces.  
Reminders of things lost, places, posessions, beings. Only short flutters of sweet promises which can never be held.  
“I hate it…” she huffs, rubbing her eyes tiredly and now they see the real state of the dungeon and she shudders.  
The bars rusty, the ground uneven with the cobble stones partly missing, the interior of the cells filled with rotten bodies, skeletons and there is no straw or leaves, only…that which is left when flesh has rotten from bones.  
The smell makes her gag, she doesn´t want to know what she would have ingested, what others had ingested when parttaken in the offered foods, like so many others trusting people obviously did.  
People , some of them kept alive to suffer in the dungeons.  
Few had encountered a different faith. Tricked, lured with false whispers of happiness into serving the demon that posed as Mother, Daughter, Lover….whatever the unfortunate soul missed the most.  
“She didn´t amuse her any longer, she didn´t falter. No screaming, crying..only tears and love. Mother does not like it, it tastes rank to her. But they need it”

They climb over rubble, following Cole who has a goal..  
“Shit..Varric…” a kennel, small recesses in the wall, gates closed..whimpering and near silent crying.  
“Got it bunny, got it” Varric works on the lock, opening one cell and without thinking about it she crawls into the small space, not thinking about what is crumbling, dusty and in some places slimy under her fingers as she drags a woman with her, iron collar around the throat.  
“Yves…Yves..no..monster….way..” Lysel had been starved, but kept alive, throat scratched bloody. Most likely in an attempt to free herself, or kill herself..maybe.  
The smell of the grime clinging to her, to the woman who is coated in what was left from the earlier victims and her own waste.  
“Hey..bunny” the weight in her stomach doubles as Varric stands next to the open gate where a small body lies curled up on a pile of…not twigs, the same collar and chain as his mother around the throat.

“Cole…” they have gotten Yves out of the kennel, that there is still life in him is…she can not call it mercy when she compares it to the suffering he had gone through. Mercy would have been death long ago, so as not to encounter the abuse.  
“Cole…give him…the..here” she holds out the flask with healing elexier. The boy is not fit to swallow anything on his own and she just…she can´t force the boy to swallow the medicine, so Cole has to fill his own mouth with the potion and forces it into the boy by pressing his lips on the mouth of the boy while she massages the throat, keeping it elevated and bent, so the solution does not go down wrong.  
She is too shaken up, she couldn´t have attempted any healing by herself..but Cole, Cole does what needs to be done without loosing his nerves.  
“Out here..out..” She mumbles, pulling off her jacket and helping Cole to wrap the boy in it. Cole carries Yves back the way they came while Solas has the mother, having her healed up as good as he could.  
“He looks like Cole, reminds, similar,…not, but she thinks it is so, sad, forgotten, pain..but the pain is better, still she wants to cry for the Not-Cole. You would cry for me.”  
Coles mumbling reflects her thoughts and as she climbs the ladder she shouts out for Bull.  
As she crawls out of the hole, to the side, that is all she can do. She has fought demons, killed people, but that child, this is what does her in when she thinks about the fact that Yves is one of hundred, thousand other children who suffer the same way or worse, who are dead, dying and no one will help them, can help them.

Bull helps Solas to get the mother out of the hole, stripping dirty rags of skeleton thin bodies while the hut is heated up magically.  
Than Dorian kneels at her side and she can´t help herself as to grab him, cling to him and cry for all those people she can´t help. She can´t speak, but she knows that Dorian will understand, and she knows that the others will do their best to clean both victims up to their best abilites.  
She doesn´t know if mother and son will make it, it looks bad, but..for now they are not dead..  
“Hurt, sadness, wanting to help and unable to..you do not want the pain taken..you need it?” Cole asks, crouching next to her and Dorian as she takes a shuddering breath.  
“No..I can not forget, I need it so I know why I have to follow my goal, to end it all…why I can not hesitate, don´t take it Cole…it makes me what I need to be”

Her eyes are red rimmed as she looks at the spirit in the form of a young man “Just like your experiences have made you what you are..if you would forget Cole, the pain and suffering that Cole went through, you would not be you…”  
“I understand, suffering makes us, but not only sadness…love, anger..fear..you love and fear love” he breathes eyes darting around, not looking at her.  
“Yes..and now…silence..please….I need some silence, but maybe you could..help them?”  
She doesn´t need to direct him, he knows, it is in her thoughts and he knows her thoughts.

“Guess we can not move them until they are stabilized”Varric asks  
“Yes, traveling to the next camp, even just an hour for now would be too much.” Solas answers and casts more protective spells around the cottage “We ought to stay here for the night. But there are still some hours of daylight left so maybe one of us could get back to the refugee camp and arrange help. A cart would be wise for transport”  
“Bull, could you go and get help? And maybe bring the chargers with you if they have already dispatched the bandits in the area…I want this place to be burned down, the…dungeon”  
“Sure boss, consider it already in motion, we will bring back some fine bombs and light them up once we can move everyone”

She stays in Dorians embrance, does that make her weak? No…surely not. But she is also not the only one who might break down sooner or later.  
Sinking back against the wall she looks at Dorian “Sorry Sparkler…guess I have ruined some of your fancy panties…”  
“Ah well, what a gentleman I would be if I couldn´t help a lady in need? Ruined clothes are nothing compared to the gain of having you well again” she snorts “Charmeur…well when we get back I see to it that you get tailored something new fashionable..and a hot bath” or two..”For all of us”

Liesel and Yves rest on the bedroll which Bull has left for them, both close together and the closeness seems to help…and Cole. The fitfull moaning of the mother lessens as she finds peace, Cole sitting behind them so he can watch their faces.  
“ I will be outside, there are some herbs growing which I can utilize until we are able to transport them”  
“Guess I will see to some dinner, Varric would you come with me?”  
“No, take Sparkler, I hold watch together with Cole and you two get some fresh air. Dorian seems green around his moustache from the smell”

She and Dorian stay outside in silence, starting a fire instead of inside the hut. The inside of the cottage feels oppressing and she really prefers to stay out here, instead of inside with the memories.  
“I think I should have come with you, as moral support”  
“No Dorian, we would have both broken down and who would have supported us then? Both of us a wreck would have been a bit much.”  
She laughs “Just imagine us clinging to Solas.As if he hasn´t already enough work cut out”  
“Oh an amusing thought, yes…and you are right, might have been a tad unfair on him.”

They talk while trowing together a meal, until the Chargers arrive with Bull and settle around the fire.  
Sharing the experience with others who understand, lessens the burden and the next day they are able to leave the ruins behind them.  
As they are some hundred metres away, there is a muffled explosion which makes her smile and share a thumbs up with their pyromanic.


	7. A Ravens Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old story, a myth how the ravens feathers turned black.
> 
> It will fit somewhere, I am just not sure where for now.  
> But for now, for all the ravens out there, I will post it.  
> Because Dorian is also a raven, not the only one.   
> I think it fits to see him as a raven.
> 
> Somewhere it will find a place, where it might act as salve for his wounds, maybe told by his lover when nightmares and doubts get too overwhelming.

Once upon a time long gone and forgotten, the raven was the most colourfull of all birds.  
Feathers spun from finest silk, tinted by mother of pearl and the times when the sky turned between day and night.  
Colours bleed and blended, an everlasting play of light brought on by the lightest flutter of breath.  
Gracious, gentle creature they were, they shared the richness of their plume with everyone freely who asked them.  
Awed they were first, naïve joy, bedding the colourfull feathers between their own, playing with them and some of the colours would fall unto the birds when the feathers turned to dust over time.

But the bliss wouldn´t last forever, for the other birds got more greedy with every passing moon until they demandend that the raven shared with them their plume.  
At first the raven tried to fullfill their need, unfortunatelly turned to greed, which never could be satisfied no matter how much the raven gave.  
One day it came so far that the other birds cornered the raven, for the raven could not spend endlessly from their plumage and the other birds thought them mean and miserly.

Dumbstruck first as the first feathers were grabbed, the other birds pulled tight fisted, demandend until the colourfull appendages ripped off and than mayhem went wild.  
If the raven wouldn´t give willingly, denied the other birds what they thought was their right, they would take.  
And take they did, the ravens cried drowned under the loud screeches of greed that erupted from the beaks of all the birds.

Left in shambles on the ground, unable to fly when robbed of most of their feathers, the raven cowered and cried, unable to believe what had happened.  
So great was days shame about what their creation had done, the sun hid early for the nightmother to come to ease the ravens pitifull cries.

Waves of nightwind and cool water splashing over the sky, as the darkness churned and flowed down to earth, where the nightmother weaved her cloak around the humilated bird.  
The soft warm wind of a summers night drew tight but gentle, rocking like waves from a sleeping sea. Only a whistling breeze, petting over dry grass was heard, not even a single cricket sounded as the nightmother bowed her pate.  
Tears of falling stars, soaking through her cloak of midnight, so the colour bleed out and was drenching the mistreated raven with endlessly darkness, the same as the nightmother wore.

New feathers made from darkness of the midnightcloak and the nightmothers tears, only those who really would look, would be able to see what hid behind the black.  
For the raven still wears the mother of pearl sheen, together with every colour the sky can take on.  
Hidden from the greed of the other birds, the raven took back to the sky, taken on a different life.  
Hated and still envied, apart from their bretheren, tightknit community with those of the same legacy. A trickster, a lier, wise and hidden, shy and bolsterous, for the raven took also on part of the nightmothers nature.   
A guide and warrior for those who dare to seek more, for those oppressed, hated and hunted, if they were able to keep their heart, or could take it back from where it had been lost.

For if you are able to enter between day and night, walk between waking and sleeping, half between dream and death, you can see the raven as they once were.

And for some of those who can walk the path, they will realise, that they are the raven, hidden and still visible, therefor distrusted by those who want the ravens feathers for their own.

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